Mist

It slowly, finely falls,
  leaving the faintest trace.
In little, tiny drops,
  coating everything until
Finally it drips with
  the weight of enough.
It is not even a hint
  of what falls some days
In sheets, in large drops
  crying out the sky.
This is more a fineness
  which can't be caught.
A hint of what might be
  coming, but not full
Out coming down hysteria,
  today is just the strains
Of loveliness in the hint
  of what is yet to come.


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